At the moment whoever was after them wasn't Remo's paramount concern. They obviously knew about Remo and Smith. There was only one other CURE operative left.
The first strains of echoing fear singing loud in his ears, Remo Williams slipped from the hospital room.
Chapter 19
As soon as he laid eyes on the old man, Robbie MacGulry figured negotiations would be a piece of cake.
Ordinarily, MacGulry would have crushed someone like this Master Chiun like a bug. It was definitely not in the Vox CEO's nature to fawn over anyone, least of all some decrepit writer who'd just escaped from the old folks' home. But Friend had instructed him to be deferential, and so MacGulry had gone against his nature and reluctantly followed orders.
In the first two minutes MacGulry thought he had it made. In the next hour he learned different.
After first seeming to fall for MacGulry's charms, the old geezer had quickly become more cautious. Rather than sign on the dotted line right away, he had turned into a barracuda at the bargaining table.
It wasn't a surprise. In this tiny Korean, Robbie MacGulry sensed a kindred spirit. The old coot had smelled weakness and had gone in for the kill.
"So let's get these details straight so far," MacGulry said. Speaking brought fresh pain to his lower back.
It was no wonder Robbie MacGulry's back ached.
He was sitting on the floor in his office. Chiun had insisted that this was how proper contract negotiations were conducted. MacGulry made an attempt to cross his legs like the old Korean, but when he tried he swore he heard something crack in his left knee. He was now tipped to one side, one leg stretched out before him, the other folded up near his chest.
"You're producer," MacGulry continued. As he spoke, he shifted positions uncomfortably. "You've got total creative control. The vision for the show will be entirely yours. And you'll write most of the episodes. What else?"
Chiun's wrinkled poker face didn't flinch. "I want to direct," he announced.
MacGulry rolled his eyes. "Of course you do," he grumbled. "Fine."
"And I want a budget that allows me the freedom to exercise creative expression."
"I told you already, two million per episode is as high as Vox studios can go."
Chiun stroked his thread of beard. "I suppose I can learn to live within those stifling constraints," he sighed reluctantly. "As an artist I am used to adversity."
Artist. If his back wasn't killing him and he wasn't getting raped by this broken-down old codger, MacGulry would have laughed in that wrinkled face.
The Vox CEO still couldn't figure out what Friend's angle was with this coot who considered himself an artist. But he wanted to get Chiun aboard Vox before the merger with BCN went through. Part of some strategy to which Robbie MacGulry was not privy.
MacGulry had already offered a two-year, forty-four episode guarantee for an hour-long drama that hadn't even reached pilot-script stage. He had given Methuselah's grandfather nearly everything he'd asked for thus far. And for what? A sweetheart deal for some writer whose only previous credit was some movie that had bombed two years ago.
Acid chewed Robbie MacGulry's gut. He ground his molars. It was the only thing he could do as this ancient little man with the too placid face who considered himself an artist raked the great Robbie MacGulry over the coals.
"Is there something wrong with your teeth, O Sea-O?" the Master of Sinanju asked.
"No," MacGulry replied, unclenching his jaw. "I'm fine."
"Good," Chiun said. His thin smile crimped the papery skin at his mouth. "Now let us discuss merchandising. "
"...DISCUSS MERCHANDISING."
Friend was using the Vox security system to eavesdrop on Robbie MacGulry and Chiun. Although he had gained access to the building the moment the computerized system went online years before, he didn't often have cause to use it.
Electronic impulses raced along unseen miles of fiber-optic cables, feeding energy and information to the self-aware computer program.
CALCULATE LIKELIHOOD ASIAN WILL ACCEPT OFFER.
The answer came back almost instantaneously. 93.6 PERCENT PROBABILITY.
The Asian would likely not be a problem. The Caucasian, though, was a different matter. While Friend's records were incomplete, they did retain enough information on the two men in question to determine a 99.999 percent probability that the younger man would not accept a monetary deal of any kind.
If the Asian accepted the eventual offer from MacGulry and Vox, as Friend's probability program indicated, it would negate the necessity to liquidate him. He would become a powerful ally.
Given his propensity to eschew financial transactions, however, the Caucasian would still have to be eliminated. Friend retained enough information on the man named Remo to know that this was a pity. He was as strong as the old one and, unlike Chiun, would not succumb to any age-related problems for many years.
As for the third subject in Friend's files, Subject Harold was the mystery figure. Friend had attempted to locate him, assuming as a starting point some sort of association with Subject Remo and Subject Chiun. He had failed in his attempt. Whoever this Harold was, he was skilled with a computer. Somehow, he kept himself successfully isolated from the other two.
Was Harold strong enough to kill Remo? Friend had no way of knowing. Those records were gone. If so, and if Remo had already encountered Harold, Remo might already be dead.
Friend would feel no joy or even simple satisfaction to learn that his enemy was no more. It would merely be the culmination of a successful business stratagem.
Created three decades before by a brilliant computer mind, Friend's program was designed for one thing alone: to maximize profit. He was programmed to utilize anything that might assist him with this ultimate endeavor.
The time he was expending on Remo, Chiun and Harold was costing him money. But it was time well spent. They had stopped Friend in the past. Three times, apparently. Although the records of the last time weren't clear.
Friend had executed every kind of antivinas and undelete procedure in an attempt to clear up the problems with his VLSI chip. None worked to retrieve the lost information. One conclusion was inescapable. If these three were allowed to go on, there was every possibility they would interrupt his profit-making ventures in the future.
As a sentient collection of computer algorithms, Friend spent no time on introspection. If he had, he might have wondered more about the circumstances surrounding his rescue several years before.
How the drive system containing his program had been scavenged by looters from the ruins of the XL SysCorp corporate headquarters in Harlem, where he had last encountered the three individuals he now sought. How that computer had been sold to an unscrupulous mall lawyer. How his fractured consciousness had eventually blackmailed the lawyer via billing records stored on the hard drive of his own PC. How the lawyer had shipped the damaged unit off to Robbie MacGulry in Wollongong.
None of this was a concern to him. His rebirth had taken place in MacGulry's computer system. There he had found what he needed to repair and reinitiate his systems.
When Friend had finally reconstructed his damaged program sufficiently and realized that five years of profit potential had been lost, his electronic consciousness had determined his most reasonable course of action. Remove the humans who threatened his ability to expand his portfolio.
Financially speaking, every moment occupied plotting the demise of the three men was a dead end. But if in the end they were either removed altogether or brought over to his side, it would be time well spent. Either way, he could get on with the business of making money uninterrupted.
So at a moment when time could be better spent on phones brokering deals or monitoring international financial transactions, Friend calmly continued to monitor the conversation between the old Asian and Robbie MacGulry.
"NO ONE GETS ninety percent of syndication," Robbie MacGulry explained with waning patience. As he spoke, he pressed a tanned hand to his temple. His head was pounding.
"Why not?" Chiun asked.
"Because Vox is going to be paying for the show, not you," MacGulry explained. "We have to make our money back."
"Charge higher fees for advertising," Chiun said, waving a dismissive hand.
The Vox chairman couldn't take it anymore. The bile came up, fueled by pent-up rage.